


Witchers Don't Feel

by stcrmpilot



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Panic Attacks, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), and jaskier is big mad about it, copious swearing, detailed warnings in chapter notes, everyone hates witchers, no homophobia in my witcherland just witcherphobia, so many feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23602240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stcrmpilot/pseuds/stcrmpilot
Summary: It’s become Jaskier’s most despised phrase in all the world. They use it as a catch-all:What’s it matter if I call him names? Witchers don’t feel. What’s it matter if he doesn’t get his bloody coin? What’s it matter if we throw rocks? Drinks? Witchers don’t feel.(Geralt shows Jaskier how much a witcher feels. Jaskier shows Geralt how he deserves to be treated.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 57
Kudos: 490





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic is at 8k now. What have I done.
> 
> Anyway the first section of this chapter is earlier in their relationship, while Jaskier is still Pining. The rest is established relationship and sorta skips over an unspecified timespan. Long enough for Geralt to fuckin get himself some healthy coping mechanisms by the end. I love these smitten idiots.

Sometimes it’s only words. 

Jaskier often wonders, as he trudges behind the witcher through the doors of inns, as he sits himself on a table in some backwater pub, tunes his lute and surveys his audience, as he joins him at the cornermost table of a tavern for a warm meal and a pint, whether Geralt even notices. He doesn’t exactly have an air of social awareness about him; Jaskier wouldn’t be shocked to find that he simply doesn’t care enough to see the effect he has on the general public. He likes to absorb himself in his thoughts when he isn’t hunting, and clearly has no desire to socialize. If it never once reaches his awareness that a barmaid flinches when he glances up, that an innkeeper's hard gaze follows him down the hall or that a group of men across the bar have been throwing him sour glares all night… well, perhaps that would be for the best. Jaskier likes to think he can keep Geralt’s temper on edge perfectly fine by himself. There’s no need for him to deal with the idiotic preconceptions of strangers as well. 

But then, that’d be a stroke of luck to which neither of them are predisposed. The witcher is observant to the point of obsession, Jaskier knows, even when he doesn’t look it. Which leaves Jaskier to quietly marvel at the fact that Geralt, normally quick to call whomever he pleases on their bullshit, seems to take this particular flavour of bullshit without protest or complaint. 

Tonight, the two have settled down in a larger village for dinner and a decent bed, on Jaskier’s suggestion. These are the sorts of places he can usually manage a good night’s wages—where the people aren’t scraping out a living, where travellers are commonplace, and where most have already warmed to the subject of his songs. They’re recognized, as usual, as soon as they walk into the tavern; a few quiet mutterings about Geralt’s hair and eyes and blood-spattered clothes follow them as he makes for a small empty table in the corner, and though Jaskier waits tensely for the dreaded hisses of “butcher” and “freak”, after a moment the patrons all return to their own business without incident. Geralt, unperturbed, sits down with a heaviness in his posture that betrays the same tired ache Jaskier is feeling, and Jaskier is pleased to know his insistence on an inn won’t go entirely unappreciated by his companion. 

Before they can rest, however, he has a performance to do. He swings the little pack off his shoulder to land in his seat, and takes his lute from his back. 

“Get us some food, would you?” he says to Geralt. “And ale. Or whatever passes for it.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow, his head tilting in what Jaskier has come to recognize as amusement. “I’m not your servant.”

“Oh? Oh, hadn’t noticed.” Jaskier plucks a note and heaves the weariest sigh he can muster. “Here I am, slaving away at my art–”

“I killed a pack of ghouls yesterday.”

“–offering up my heart and soul to pay for your rooms and meals, spreading your good name…”

“Which one of us wanted to be here again?”

“And you won’t even order a pint?”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Fuck off, bard,” he growls, but jerks his head to tell him to go set up, a tiny little smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. 

“Ah, eloquent as always.” Jaskier shoots him a winning grin, which he turns on the barmaid when she walks up to the table. She’s more visibly appreciative of the friendliness—they often are, he finds, the crowds can be _so_ unsavoury—and in high spirits despite the long day, he perches himself on a barstool and begins to tune. 

His audience perks up rather quickly, on the whole just drunk enough to be fun without feeling the need to throw things at him. He starts off tame with a couple well-known tunes, then kicks off on something decidedly raunchier that has a crowd gathering round him to laugh and jeer and whistle at his accompanying movements, and he has his fun with it. He doesn’t often get such an enthusiastic audience. But by the time he launches into the most beloved of his collection of Geralt-centric songs, he’s quite put out to find he can’t see the witcher through the crowd. Terrible shame; this is the point at which Geralt always fixes his drink with a glare and attempts to melt into the wall at his back, and Jaskier revels in it just as much as he does the applause. He’ll catch it after the people disperse, he decides. After they disperse, and after he collects his tips. 

He doesn’t exactly get what he was hoping for. 

Geralt is staring into his drink, sure enough, but not a shred of his attention is on Jaskier. He’s got that look on his face that Jaskier knows from his hunts, from when he’s brought all his keen senses to bear but hasn’t yet detected any danger. It causes an instinctive tightness in Jaskier’s chest, and he frowns; people are still tossing him the odd coin or pat on the back as he heads over to their table, hanging his lute from the back of his chair. 

“Oh, lovely!” he exclaims, catching a whiff of the stew and warm bread waiting on the table. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Geralt offers a noncommittal hum, and tears off a piece of bread to dip into his bowl. Jaskier is always a bit surprised by how slowly he eats, when given the chance; he watched (eagerly) the food come out at least ten minutes ago, and though Geralt didn’t wait to start eating his bowl is only half empty. He supposes it’s something about discipline, making the food last, etcetera etcetera—all that witchery stuff. It’s lucky he’s no witcher, because he’s bloody starving. 

No, he is certainly no witcher—but then he doesn’t need to be to catch the looks periodically thrown their way by the two men at the table to their right. It’s ignorable for a little while. It happens, after all, when you travel with Geralt; people are bound to stare a bit, and Jaskier is really too occupied with his meal to keep an eye on them. Then he becomes aware of the muttering.

Jaskier fancies himself a nice person. Patient, under the right circumstances. Not at all prone to violence. But more and more lately he’s found that his kind and understanding demeanour tends to go out the window when people go after Geralt. They aren't being subtle; they throw glances at the witcher, then turn to each other and sneer like they’ve caught a whiff of rotten meat. Like the very idea of him sitting next to them is absurd and abhorrent. Once or twice they lean over the table to speak in low tones and draw back snickering, and something burns white-hot and angry in Jaskier’s stomach. He can’t hear what they’re saying—but that doesn’t matter, he realizes suddenly, because Geralt almost certainly can, and that’s what he’s been forced to listen to this whole time, what’s got that terse look on his face. Jaskier thinks he’d very much like to hit them. He shoves another spoonful of stew into his mouth. 

The one nearest Geralt—a young, lanky thing in nice silks who looks like he’s never worked a day in his life—eyes the witcher, smirks across the table, and mutters something into his drink. Geralt hears it, his frown deepening imperceptibly, but once more he does nothing to defend himself. And for some reason (some reason that he already very much knows but prefers not to think too much about) that’s what does Jaskier in. 

“Oi,” he snaps, rounding on the other table. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it was rude to stare? Or was she too busy fucking her way through all the villiage lowlife?”

At once, both men go from jovial to shocked. Then to outraged, and that does make Jaskier regret his life’s choices, just slightly. 

“The fuck’s your problem?” demands the smaller, ruder one, as if he genuinely can’t understand why Jaskier is mad. 

“Jaskier,” warns Geralt, low and quiet. 

“Yeah,” agrees the other. “Only lookin’, we was. What’s the trouble in that?”

“Who d’you think took care of the ghouls shredding up your farmers, you great lout?” Jaskier says incredulously. “Rather he just left them there ‘till they got you as well, would you? Show some bloody gratitude!”

The scrawny one leaps up, already moving to get his hands on Jaskier, but Geralt reaches out and shoves him back down unceremoniously. One glare from him is all it takes to keep them both in their seats. 

“C’mon,” he orders, rising from the bench and slinging his weaponry over one shoulder. “Time to go.”

“But my soup!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls. 

With a huff, anger and indignation still simmering in his veins, Jaskier grabs his lute and bag, stuffs a slice of bread in his mouth and follows. He resists the urge to shoot a sour look back at the table; it’s not like he’ll intimidate them any more than Geralt already has, so he may as well walk away with dignity. 

Thoroughly ignoring the attention he’s drawing, Geralt leaves a handful of coins on the bar counter and makes his leisurely way out of the tavern. It’s begun to drizzle outside, the clouds ruining any chance Jaskier had to see a nice sunset, and his mood only sours further. He catches up to Geralt and walks at his side down the otherwise empty street, towards the inn. 

“Why do you let them do that?” he mutters, surprising himself. He doesn’t shy from asking Geralt questions, but he does have _some_ tact. Right now, his annoyance simply outweighs his willingness to play along with Geralt’s brooding silence. 

Geralt glances sideways, his eyes flashing in the low light, and cocks an eyebrow. 

“I know you could hear them,” Jaskier continues. “You hear everything. Don’t get why you don’t just… I don’t know, tell them to fuck off, at least.”

“What good would that do?” he says gruffly. 

Jaskier knows he’s right. He knows what happens when Geralt tries to defend himself. Everyone does, really, hence the need for Jaskier’s assistance. That doesn’t make it fair. 

He gives an emphatic sigh and kicks at a stone on the ground. Geralt makes a quiet sound of agreement, and for a little while they walk in silence. 

Jaskier hesitates. “Geralt?”

Geralt hums. 

“What were they saying?”

There’s a long pause, during which they arrive at the front steps of the inn. Jaskier assumes he isn’t going to get an answer, until Geralt stops on the porch and turns round to face him. 

“Freak,” he says, “savage, mutant bastard.” He shrugs, as if it doesn’t mean a thing. “All blends together, after a while.”

Something tightens in Jaskier’s throat. Geralt isn’t wearing a cloak, and the rain’s got all in his hair, little droplets clinging to the strands and shining in the light of the inn’s lanterns. There are dark circles under his eyes as a result of two straight days without sleep, their lovely liquid gold dulled by shadow and exhaustion, and the scratches on his face are still smeared with dried blood. Even in all his armour, swords strapped to his back, Jaskier doesn’t think he looks the slightest bit intimidating; he looks tired, under that careful mask he wears, tired of being told how little he’s wanted. Jaskier decides the rest of the world must be mad. No one in their right mind could look at Geralt like this and think him anything but extraordinary. 

“Geralt–” he says quietly, taking a step closer. He doesn’t really know what he intends to do—only that he wants to wipe that look from his face—but before he can get any further Geralt turns his gaze down to the floor, hiding his expression in shadow. He wrestles with himself, willing his mind to offer up some perfect phrase that won’t make Geralt run off. He’s just about to reach for his arm when Geralt looks up again, a hint of a sly smile curving his lips. 

“C’mon, bard,” he says, shaking his head in amusement. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Jaskier can’t help but smile back, despite himself. It’s not exactly a heartfelt conversation, not how Jaskier hoped Geralt might react, though complete evasion is hardly atypical for him. It’ll all get to him again, eventually. Maybe he’ll want to talk next time. But for now, perhaps he can take some comfort from Jaskier’s rather ineffectual defence. At least he’ll have done something useful. 

Jaskier follows him into the inn, to the desk, and he follows him to their rooms. When the innkeeper stares after them, Jaskier glares back. 

* * *

 _Witchers don’t feel._ It’s become Jaskier’s most despised phrase in all the world. They use it as a catch-all: _What’s it matter if I call him names? Witchers don’t feel. What’s it matter if he doesn’t get his bloody coin? What’s it matter if we throw rocks? Drinks? Witchers don’t feel._

Geralt feels, and he does it so acutely. He has a sense of honour, a moral compass stronger than anyone Jaskier has ever met, and he feels guilt when circumstances force him to forgo it. He has a sense of artistry, however much he pretends not to; he feels all those lovely human feelings when he sees dappled sunlight on the forest floor, when they crest a hill and stare out over endless plains and rivers, even when, on occasion, Jaskier coerces him into playing a few soft and careful chords on his lute. He feels fear and hurt and anger and all their confusing combinations. He loves like his life depends on it. It’s just that no one cares to see it. 

No one except Jaskier, it seems. Jaskier has always had something of a talent in his ability to read the witcher, though lately he’s begun to think it’s not so much that he’s talented as it is that everyone else is bloody braindead. He offers Geralt a piece of dried sugared fruit, his prized reward for a series of good performances, and Geralt smiles as he accepts—a small smile, yes, but plain to see. He trips and sprains an ankle, falls in a stream, cuts himself up on a bramble thicket, and Geralt rolls his eyes and grumbles an insult about his fragile human constitution, then hoists him up on Roach, bundles him in his cloak, cleans and dresses his wounds with such a gentle touch that Jaskier suddenly feels self-conscious about his own medical skills. He kisses Geralt; he takes his face between his hands and strokes his thumbs along the line of his cheekbones, runs his fingers through that striking white hair, wraps his arms round his neck and holds him so close that for a moment there’s nothing more to the world than the points where he and Geralt touch. And when they finally part he hears the quiet gasp, the big scary witcher rendered breathless. His eyes meet Geralt’s, full to the brim with the utter devotion that marks his relationship with Jaskier, and Jaskier feels so privileged that he really has no choice but to kiss him again. 

To think there are people out there who can look at him and see a monster—Jaskier hates it more than anything. So he sings his praises, sits with him as he weathers the stares, shows him exactly how he deserves to be treated. 

In return, Geralt shows him (slowly, quietly) exactly how much a witcher feels, and to Jaskier it means the world.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more detailed warnings, spoilers ahead:
> 
> Non-consensual drug use: Some people spike Jaskier's drink at a tavern. He sleeps it off, everyone is safe. Later, he implies that people have done it to him before.
> 
> Implied/referenced rape: Those people suggest that Geralt would take advantage of Jaskier while he was drugged, which doesn't happen.
> 
> There are no warnings for the second part of the chapter, after the cut.

Setting down his pint, Jaskier fixes Geralt with an incredulous stare. “That’s _it_?”

“Hm.”

“You’re kidding me. You go after a bloody wyvern and all you’ve got to say is ‘I stabbed it’?”

This time, Geralt doesn’t even grace him with an audible response. He raises an eyebrow, dripping sarcasm without saying a word, and takes a sip of his ale. 

Jaskier huffs. “I am wounded, Geralt,” he says. He points a finger at Geralt’s chest, though his attention is momentarily occupied by his drink. “Wounded,” he repeats, once he’s licked the foam from his lips. “You have the– the nerve, yes, the _nerve_ to leave me behind, and then–” he takes another sip– “then you won’t even give me anything to work with! Unbelievable, honestly, I expected better.”

Now, Geralt cracks a tiny smile. “No, you didn’t,” he rumbles. He’s in a remarkably good mood tonight—fresh back from a hunt sporting only scratches, bruises and a heavy coin purse, lounging next to a warm hearth with Jaskier and a steady supply of alcohol—and it pulls at something in Jaskier’s chest to see him so relaxed. 

“Fine,” he relents. “I didn’t. But doesn’t mean you couldn’t give it– give–” He frowns, trying to focus through the pleasant buzz in his mind. “Try it.”

Geralt chuckles, low and quiet. “It was only a wyvern, Jas,” he says. “Young, too. Might look like a dragon, but they’re not much more than pests.”

“Bollocks,” mumbles Jaskier, and drains his glass in one go. “The creature’s fine. You’re jus’ boring.”

“Hm,” Geralt agrees. 

Jaskier raises his hand, waving the barmaid over for another drink, but Geralt pulls it back down before she can see. 

“You’ve had enough,” he says, amused. “Not having you complaining of a headache when we head out tomorrow.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Jaskier wheedles. “I’ve only had two!”

Geralt opens his mouth, ready to protest. Then his gaze falls upon the glasses on the table—two for each of them. 

“Seriously?” He frowns at Jaskier. “You’re barely upright. You can’t be that bad at holding your liquor.”

“Well fuck you too, then,” Jaskier grumbles. “I’m f– oh.” His hand goes automatically to grip Geralt’s arm as the room decides to go for a bit of a spin around him, and Geralt steadies him by the shoulder. “Oh. Not… hm. Not all fine, s’pose.”

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier’s attention is abruptly occupied trying to keep himself upright, but the sound of muffled laughter still manages to filter into his awareness. He turns, swaying, to see a small group of people gathered around a table across the room. They’re all either hiding their snickers behind their drinks or simply sneering openly, and they’re all looking at him and Geralt. Jaskier gathers the presence of mind to deduce, with some effort, that they don’t seem very nice. He also deduces that he is very drunk, and exactly _why_ doesn’t matter all that much when he just wants to rest his head in Geralt’s lap and let sleep have him. 

Geralt, who hasn’t even come close to tipsy, seems to think it matters a whole lot more. He scrutinizes the group, then Jaskier, who giggles at the stern look on his face. Then he grabs Jaskier’s newly-empty glass, sniffs at the remains, and freezes; the snickering grows louder. 

Geralt turns to the group, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “What did you do?”

“Ow,” says Jaskier, because Geralt’s grip on his arm has gotten painful. 

“What the fuck did you give him?” he snarls, standing so fast that the bar stool goes clattering to the floor. It’s only then that Jaskier feels the first inklings of foreboding—as well as the first tingles of numbness in his extremities. 

One of the men is laughing outright now, incredibly entertained by Geralt’s outrage. The others at least have the decency to be skittish in the face of an angry witcher, exchanging sheepish glances among themselves. 

“Aw, no harm done,” says a woman perched on the end of the table, pursing her lips to half-hide her smile. “He ain’t been poisoned.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier mumbles. It’s hitting him now that he has absolutely no control over what happens next, and it should scare him, except he can’t seem to feel much more than a pleasant sort of static. He tries to lean his elbow on the counter, misses, and rests his head against Geralt’s shoulder, wishing the room would stop spinning quite so violently. “Someth’ngs not… right.”

Another peal of laughter sounds from the group. Geralt tenses, torn between crossing the room with a sword or two and holding Jaskier upright. 

“Look at that,” coos a balding man wearing, in Jaskier’s opinion, a simply horrid green tunic. “The witcher’s got a little _admirer_.”

“I heard,” another pipes up, “the bard follows him ‘round _everywhere._ Trails, taverns, bedchambers…”

A lady smirks. “Course he does.”

“He’s a bard, ain’t he? What else is he good for?”

“Why else d’you think the freak keeps him around?”

“Witcher’s whore!” one jeers, and the rest pick up the call. Tainted drink aside, Jaskier feels a bit sick. 

A growl rumbles in Geralt’s chest; Jaskier doesn’t have to look up to know exactly how terrifying the man’s glare must be, having had it turned on him a number of times. They only laugh more, secure in the knowledge that he can’t leave Jaskier alone. 

“Would ya look at that!” someone roars. “I’d say he fancies the bardling!”

“Nah! Witchers don’t fancy shit!”

“Oi, mutant!” calls a particularly brave individual. “Aren’t you gonna thank us?”

“Thank you?” Geralt grits out. 

“Yeah! Finally got you somethin’ you don’t have to pay to fuck!”

The small crowd erupts in laughter. 

Geralt is trembling; his hands shake violently where they clutch at Jaskier, and Jaskier knows he’s half a second from spearing the lot of them. The thought of him leaving sends dulled anxiety trickling through Jaskier’s chest. He’s so dizzy that he doesn’t have a hope in hell of standing on his own, his vision is starting to grey around the edges. He grasps at Geralt’s armour with clumsy fingers, burying his face against his neck. He wants to get out of here, anywhere, he doesn’t care, just as long as Geralt doesn’t leave him.

“Geralt,” he whispers, and hopes he gets the message. 

The witcher softens at once, bending to examine him closely. “Are you alright?” he says quietly. “Jaskier…”

“Ngh.” Jaskier shakes his head, what little movement he can manage. 

“I’m taking you upstairs.”

Ignoring the continued jeers and whistles, Geralt helps him get an arm round his shoulders and lifts him off the barstool, offering no protest as Jaskier all but collapses against him. It’s slow progress, and Jaskier is dimly aware that he’s not helping much at all, but Geralt does manage to guide him to the base of the stairwell. Then he pauses and turns. 

“If _any_ of you are still here when I get back,” he snarls, “I will tie you to a spit with your own intestines and leave you to fucking _burn_.”

Jaskier wishes he could see the looks on their faces, but he does at least hear it as the laughter becomes suddenly forced. He’ll appreciate it later. At the moment, all he can think about is the warmth washing over him, trying to pull him under as he fights to stay conscious. Geralt is practically carrying him by the time they reach the room, fumbling the key in his haste to open the door. The world spins and shudders sickeningly as Geralt leads him towards the bed; he hasn’t made it more than a couple steps into the room before his stomach lurches and his knees finally give out. 

“M’gonna be sick,” he slurs, his voice strangled. 

Geralt lets him down gently to kneel on the floor and passes him the empty washbucket. His hand squeezes Jaskier’s shoulder as he retches and coughs, a steadying presence so welcome that he tears up when Geralt eventually lets go to rifle through his pack. Trembling like a leaf, Jaskier just barely manages to drag himself over to the bed, and lets his burning forehead rest on the straw mattress. A second later, Geralt is making him sit up, pressing a small vial into his hand. 

“Drink this,” he instructs. His hand wraps around Jaskier’s, steadying him as he shakily tips the contents into his mouth. The taste nearly makes him gag again, but Geralt gives him his water flask and has him drink a few small mouthfuls. 

“There,” he murmurs. “Good, Jas. You’re doing well. You’ll be fine.”

“Geralt–” His voice fails under the sheer weight of his exhaustion. Then he’s being wrapped up tight in Geralt’s arms, held steady as his vision fades rapidly. 

“Sleep, Jaskier,” says the witcher. “You’re safe. Go to sleep.”

Jaskier falls into darkness to the feeling of Geralt’s fingers stroking his hair. 

When he wakes again, it’s with a violent start. He tries to get up, immediately becomes aware of a pounding ache in his head and flops back down with a groan. 

“Fuck,” he says emphatically, muffled into a pillow. 

There’s a small huff of laughter from somewhere in the room. Jaskier takes a brief inventory—arms, legs, face, all present and accounted for, stomach? not too bad, actually, all things considered, and it’s at this point that he remembers he isn’t suffering from a simple hangover—and then he opens one eye. The room is comfortably dim, lit only by a small fireplace, and Jaskier can see it all from his position lying on the bed. He’s been placed on his stomach, one leg and one arm arranged carefully to the side to ensure his neck isn’t strained. Even before he can gather up all his wits, it strikes him as odd that there’s no warm weight at his back, as he’s grown so accustomed to. Instead, Geralt is halfway across the room, sitting in front of the fire with one knee drawn up to his chest. Jaskier frowns. 

“What– ack.” He licks his lips, appalled by how dry his mouth is, and tries again. “What’re you doing over there?”

Geralt throws a glance his way, hesitates, then returns to staring at the fire, his brow furrowed like he’s deep in thought. “Do you remember what happened?” he asks, carefully unemotional. 

_Ah, shit,_ thinks Jaskier. That can’t be good. That’s how Geralt speaks when he is, in fact, feeling a good number of emotions, all of which Jaskier will have to drag out of him if he doesn’t want a sulking witcher on his hands for the next few days. Jaskier swallows, trying to wet his mouth, and rubs at his eyes as he focuses through the headache. 

“Mnf,” he says, propping himself up on one elbow. “Drinking?”

A smile twitches at the corner of Geralt’s lips, quickly gone. Jaskier tries again. 

“I remember those people,” he mumbles. “The bastards. And… you, dragging me upstairs. Nicely, that is, very– very gentlemanly.”

“Hm.” 

“They slipped me something, didn’t they?”

Geralt’s eyes dart sideways, as if surprised by his forwardness. “Yes,” he says. 

Jaskier sighs. “Can’t catch a break, can I?”

There’s a long silence, during which Geralt hesitates before turning his body to face Jaskier, sitting all folded up with his arms crossed over his knees and his chin resting on top. He looks awfully small. Jaskier doesn’t like it much. 

“That _is_ all that happened, right?” he asks. “They didn’t come back after I passed out or anything, did they?” He isn’t truly worried; he remembers being here with Geralt before falling unconscious, and that’s guarantee enough of his safety. He’s clearly fine now, albeit a little achy, so there’s nothing for it but to put it out of mind. He’s more concerned with whatever’s bothering Geralt. 

Geralt nods towards the door. Jaskier cranes his neck to see that the large armchair previously resting near the fire has been dragged in front of the door, soundly blocking it from opening even if the deadbolt were to break off. 

He huffs a laugh. “Ah, see? Knew you’d take good care of me.”

Something pained and angry flickers over Geralt’s face. He presses his lips into a hard line, like he wants to speak but refuses, and that’s more than enough information for Jaskier. 

“Oh,” he says softly. “That’s it, yeah? You’re blaming yourself for this.”

Geralt’s frown deepens. “Doesn’t matter,” he says gruffly. “Go back to sleep. You need rest.”

“I’m alright.” Ignoring the pain it causes, Jaskier pushes himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. “Really,” he insists, when Geralt’s expression turns dubious. “Come here.”

He doesn’t move from his spot by the fire, only eyes Jaskier warily. “I’m not the one who’s just been drugged,” he mutters. “I don’t want your fussing.”

“You love my fussing,” Jaskier counters. “Geralt, I’m fine, I…” He sighs. “It’s not like it’s the first time someone’s tried that. They weren’t _wrong,_ people do have certain… shall we say _expectations,_ of my sort. It could’ve ended a lot worse.”

A muscle in Geralt’s jaw twitches. “Any chance you’ve still got the names of the other ones?” he says darkly. 

Jaskier smiles. “Another time.” He pats the mattress at his side. “Come here, Geralt.”

Reluctantly, with plenty of glaring, Geralt drags himself up and over to the bed. He sits down on the floor, leaning back against the frame, and fixes his gaze well away from Jaskier. Something twinges painfully at Jaskier’s heart. He knows how much effort Geralt is pouring into hiding the true extent of his distress, and how clueless the poor witcher is about coping any other way; he knows him like the back of his hand after so many years together. Right now he’ll be running through all the reasons that it’s his fault Jaskier was hurt, and all the ways he’ll definitely without a doubt hurt Jaskier in the future, and in fact all the times he’s ever hurt anyone either directly or indirectly and why this all means he should go hide out in the forest so no one ever has to interact with him again. Jaskier’s heard it before, and it’s so incomprehensible to him that it’s tempting to just laugh, tell Geralt without preamble that he’s being an absolute idiot and drag him to bed, but he’s painfully aware that Geralt believes every word of it and more. He’s been told it often enough. He requires a gentler hand at times like this. 

Geralt’s been careful not to touch Jaskier, but Jaskier reaches out and toys with a lock of his hair, curling it around his finger. 

“Are you alright?” he asks softly. 

As expected, he gets a moment’s hesitation and then a curt nod in response. 

“Yeah, course you are,” he sighs. Resigning himself to the possibility of a one-sided conversation, he shuffles over so Geralt sits between his legs and leans down to slip his arms around his chest. “C’mon, don’t do this to yourself,” he whispers, muffled into the crook of Geralt’s neck. “Don’t go all broody just ‘cause a few assholes wanted to be assholes.”

Despite his best efforts, Geralt usually all but melts into Jaskier’s arms at this point. Now he only tenses up, then shrugs Jaskier off and moves further away. Jaskier watches sadly. The pretense of anger in Geralt’s expression has failed him; Jaskier can see plain as day just how hurt he is. 

“I’m sorry, Geralt,” he murmurs. “People can be…”

“Hm.”

Jaskier tilts his head, to better see Geralt’s shadowed face, and Geralt turns away to compensate. “Please talk to me,” he implores. “Oh, just let me help, I hate seeing you like this.”

“Then go.”

Jaskier blinks. “What?”

“Just _go,_ ” Geralt snarls, fixing Jaskier with a furious glare. His eyes shine in the firelight, wet with unshed tears. “If you hate it so much, get out. Leave me _alone._ ”

“We both know you don’t mean that,” Jaskier says firmly. “If you really want to be alone, you only have to ask. Otherwise you can stop with all the growling.” He softens his tone. “I just want to help. That’s it. I won’t hurt you, you know that.”

His last-ditch attempt at self-isolation having failed, Geralt draws in on himself. He fixes his miserable frown on the fireplace like he doesn’t know what else to do, and draws a shuddering breath. 

“Sorry,” he mutters. It’s awfully barbed, for an apology, but Jaskier has hung around him long enough to know he really means it. 

“Apology accepted,” Jaskier says. “Do you want to be alone?”

“No,” he says immediately, then snaps his mouth shut. “No, I… You need to be watched. In case of a bad reaction to the sedative.”

Jaskier allows him the excuse. “You wanna come a bit closer?” he asks. “To watch, of course.”

Gaze snapping up to meet Jaskier’s, Geralt shrinks away almost imperceptibly. There’s fear there; Jaskier sees it flickering in his eyes, alongside the firelight. He suspects it isn’t about his presence, exactly—only under rare circumstances does Geralt get nervous _about_ him, even rarer as time goes on—but rather the words of the people downstairs, and how he might react to it all. That’s the funny thing about Geralt. He’d rather burn his whole life down than face the prospect of being abandoned. 

He’s a brave man, though, and he’s learned. After a long moment of internal struggle, he carefully shifts back over to Jaskier’s side.

“There we are,” Jaskier praises. “Isn’t that better?”

“Hm,” says Geralt, dubious, and for a moment both of them are silent, Geralt watching the fire and Jaskier watching Geralt. It doesn't take long for the witcher to start getting worked up again, all his muscles going tense as a bowstring and his hands shaking where they’re clenched around the fabric of his sleeves. For Jaskier, the message is clear: Geralt won’t be able to calm down until he’s worked through this mess, no matter how much he’d like to ignore it. Geralt, he knows, won’t see it that way. 

“Lean forward a bit, love,” murmurs Jaskier, moving to sit behind Geralt once more. His fingers run through his hair with practiced ease, undoing the leather tie so he can work. “Just relax. Breathe for me, yeah?”

Geralt huffs, but obeys, curling up to rest his forehead on his knees as Jaskier starts his gentle procedure of separating and braiding his hair. He’s well acquainted with it; he finds it easier to talk when Jaskier can’t see his face, and easier to reign in his anxieties with Jaskier’s touch grounding him. It’s become something of a routine for them, over the years. Jaskier lets him focus on his breathing for a minute or two while he carefully works the knots out of his hair. Once Geralt starts to go limp under his fingers, he gives the struggling conversation another shot. 

“Tell me,” Jaskier says quietly, wincing as Geralt tenses up again, “what’s got you so worried?” And because he knows that’s too general a question for Geralt to answer in this state, “Are you afraid those people will come back?”

There’s a pause, and Geralt shakes his head. 

“Good. They’re cowards. They won’t bother us again.” 

“Hm,” says Geralt. 

“Exactly,” says Jaskier. He gathers a section of Geralt’s hair off to the side, now silky smooth, and starts teasing out a stubborn tangle. “Are you worried about me?” he murmurs. “About what _I_ think of you right now?”

Geralt scoffs, to make it clear just how ridiculous he finds the thought of caring about Jaskier’s opinion. Then he stills, and Jaskier waits through the silence until he gives a tiny, hesitant nod. 

“Yeah, thought that might be it.” Jaskier sighs. “I know it’s hard for you to believe, I do. But I couldn’t possibly give less of a shit about anyone else’s opinion. They don’t know what they’re talking about. And,” he points out, “as cantankerous as you can be, my own opinion of you is quite a bit higher than it is of them, given that they spiked my drink and you– what was in that vial, anyway?”

“Potion,” Geralt mutters. His voice is muffled, his face still buried in his arms, but Jaskier can’t help noting the way it quivers. “Not a witcher one. Helps deal with toxins.”

“And to think you’ve let me suffer so many hangovers unaided!” he says in mock betrayal. It doesn’t draw so much as a grunt, which does amplify his concern a bit. “But, er,” he continues, “really, Geralt, after everything we’ve been through, this isn’t gonna scare me off. I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”

“That’s the problem,” Geralt mutters. 

Jaskier’s hands stop moving in his surprise at hearing Geralt speak without prompting, but the change makes him flinch so he resumes his rhythm quickly. 

“Why is that a problem?” he asks. 

Geralt casts a sardonic look back at Jaskier. A cruel smile curves his lips, all anger and hurt and self-loathing, and then he shakes his head with a sharp huff of laughter. 

“Why,” he grits out, “do you not _get_ it? This– this following me around, being seen with me, defending me—where do you think it’s gonna get you? All you’ll ever earn yourself is a beating. There’s nothing else for you with me.” 

“There’s you,” Jaskier replies. 

He sneers. “And what a fucking blessing that’s been.”

“It has.”

“No,” Geralt snaps. “No, it hasn’t. It–” He yanks away from Jaskier’s touch, getting to his feet to pace with a frantic energy. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says calmly, “tell me what you’re feeling.”

“I’m fucking _angry,_ ” he snarls, eyes flashing as he rounds on Jaskier. “Cause _you_ can’t stay out of trouble. You just have to follow a witcher around. You just have to get between me and those people, every time, and you can’t see that there’s no _point._ They’ll hate me either way. You– you’ll–” He stops with a choked noise, wide-eyed and blinking as if he can’t believe how much he’s said. 

Jaskier rises to join him, hopeful despite the sick feeling that comes from seeing him so distressed. “Keep going,” he encourages. “You’re doing well, Geralt. You can keep talking. What will I do?”

Geralt averts his eyes as Jaskier approaches, glaring off into middle distance. He sets his jaw, looking for all the world like he’s marching into a battle from which he knows he won’t return. “You’ll listen to them,” he says shortly, his voice clipped to mask the tremble. “You’ll get hurt. Because of me. Again. You’ll come to your senses, and leave. _Stop_ drawing it out.”

Biting his lip, Jaskier shuts his eyes. He has to take a moment to ward off the stinging; no matter how many times he gets such a look into Geralt’s thought process, it never quite fails to break his heart.

“Do you really think that?” he says finally. He peers into Geralt’s eyes, his pupils slitted with discomfort, and searches for the hints of doubt that might let him change his mind. 

He doesn’t get a response. Geralt just twitches, fighting the urge to run. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier sighs, “when have I ever listened to anyone?” He reaches up to brush a strand of hair behind Geralt’s ear, and gently cups his jaw in his palm. 

“You should start,” he grumbles, leaning into his touch.

“Not a chance, dear,” Jaskier murmurs. “Look at me?”

Reluctantly, Geralt forces himself to meet his eyes. 

“You know this isn’t your fault, right?”

He gives an ambiguous hum. 

“Well, it’s not. I won’t have you blaming yourself for something someone else did. And I don’t blame you either. I’m not mad at you. I’m not scared of you, or– or whatever else you’ve been thinking, and nothing’s gonna change that. You’ll have to take my word for it, love, I promise I’m telling the truth.”

Pain flickers across Geralt’s expression. Unable to hold Jaskier’s gaze any longer, he squeezes his eyes shut. Jaskier brings his other hand up, lightly stroking his thumbs along the lines of his cheekbones; he doesn't think he’ll ever get used to seeing Geralt like this, but he’s terribly glad he’s allowed to these days.

“You aren’t angry,” he says softly. “Not really. You’re afraid, and that’s alright. Anyone would be, dearest, it’s alright. You’ve lost so much, haven’t you? Of course you don’t want to lose more. But trying to convince me to leave now instead of later, to protect yourself from me, it won’t help you, will it? You don’t want me to leave.”

Geralt shakes his head, his expression pinched with anguish. 

“I don’t want to leave either, I promise. How long have I been with you? Decades? You’re my _life,_ Geralt. You’re everything to me. I know exactly how cruel people can be, to you and me both, and it’s never scared me off before. It never will. Can you believe that, love? Can you try, for me?”

Sniffling, Geralt nods hastily. It seems to be the only response he can manage; he’s trembling all over now, his normally controlled breaths coming fast and erratic. Jaskier realizes he’s right on the verge of shutting down completely, overwhelmed and stuck cycling through his own thoughts. 

“Hey, breathe for me, alright?” he murmurs. He turns Geralt’s face towards him, prompting him to open his eyes, watery and bright with terror. 

“J– Jaskier,” he rasps. A tear drips down his cheek and he jerks away from Jaskier, touching his face in shock.

“What do you need, Geralt?” asks Jaskier, calmly. “Let me help you.”

Wild-eyed, Geralt looks between Jaskier and his hand. “I– I c–” The breath leaves him in a sob, and he grasps instinctively at Jaskier’s arm as he struggles to control himself. “F– fuck,” he chokes out. “Fuck, I–”

“Alright, dear, it’s okay.” Jaskier draws him closer, a hand on his waist and the other cradling the back of his head. “You’re gonna be okay.” He presses a kiss to the shaking witcher’s forehead and tugs him into an embrace, guiding his head to rest on his shoulder. “You cry if you need to. I’ve got you.”

Geralt resists, weakly, until a great tremor seizes him, tearing an agonized whimper from his throat. He all but collapses against Jaskier, his inhuman strength gone in an instant, and Jaskier holds him tighter, letting him bury his face in his doublet. For some time, he sobs too hard to even make a sound, his body wracked with noiseless spasms. Then the force of it subsides a little, and he’s left to gasp and sniffle and muffle hoarse cries against Jaskier’s shoulder. 

It wrenches at Jaskier’s heart, each and every noise of distress. He strokes Geralt’s hair, rubs his back in gentle circles. He murmurs a steady stream of comfort, all _that’s it, Geralt_ and _you’re doing so well_ and _don’t hold back_ ; _love_ and _dearest_ and _poor, sweet thing._ Geralt doesn’t like his pity, because he doesn’t like to feel vulnerable. He doesn’t like to think about the things that make Jaskier sad for him. But he’s well past that point now, and Jaskier knows he desperately needs the compassion. It kills Jaskier to see him cry, but he’ll be damned before he ever makes Geralt feel that his emotions are unwelcome. 

No one should be expected to handle so much alone, certainly not his witcher. 

Geralt is still sniffling when the exhaustion washes over him at last. He sways in Jaskier's arms, and Jaskier grips him by the shoulders to keep him upright.

"Woah, alright there," he says, helping him towards the bed. "Here, Geralt, come sit. You just take it easy." After a brief search, he retrieves the waterskin from Geralt's bag and presses it into his trembling hands. "Have a couple sips," he murmurs. 

Geralt casts a wary glance up at him, somewhat blunted by how absolutely miserable he looks, but he obeys and drinks, then hands the water back and returns to staring blankly at the hearth. His eyes glisten in the firelight, his gaze distant and lost. Tears drip down his cheeks when he blinks. Restraining himself from wrapping the witcher in another hug, Jaskier sets aside the waterskin, bends down and undoes the ties on Geralt's shirt, urging him to take it off, then helps him out of his trousers. His own outerwear follows. 

With a brief touch to Geralt's shoulder, reminding him of his presence, Jaskier arranges himself to sit up against the headboard and wriggles his feet beneath the blankets. 

"Would you like to lie down with me?" he asks softly. 

Geralt's gaze flicks to him, his pupils widening as his eyes leave the fire. He knows this routine; he sniffles, swipes his hand over his cheeks and crawls up the bed. Jaskier lifts an arm and he settles down in his customary spot, head on his chest, arms wrapped round his middle, curled against his body like it's his lifeline. He shivers as Jaskier lowers his arm to rest around his shoulders, fingers idly stroking his skin, and Jaskier reaches down to tug the blankets up to their waists. 

"How are you feeling now?" he murmurs. He shifts his hand, and strokes a section of Geralt's hair out of his face. 

Geralt sniffs. "Bad," he says hoarsely. 

"I'm sorry." 

Geralt makes a noise of dissent, muffled into Jaskier's chest. 

Jaskier cracks a fond little smile, quickly gone. "I am, dear. You deserve better."

He's always a bit surprised, once the worst of a rough night has passed, by how talkative Geralt can be. A bit of emotional release and a good dose of exhaustion seems to ease his fear of Jaskier's rejection. And once again he doesn't disappoint, tightening his grip on Jaskier as he tries to squirm closer. 

"Jaskier?" he asks, a broken whisper that barely carries over the crackling of the hearth. 

"Yes?"

"You deserve better than me."

Jaskier swallows around the lump in his throat. "No, Geralt," he murmurs, as steady as he can manage. "You know I think the world of you. If there's better out there, I don't care. I want you."

"I wish you wouldn't." Geralt's voice breaks, and hot tears fall on Jaskier's skin. 

"I know."

"Wish you'd just let them hate me. So they don't hate you."

"I know, love. We can be hated together."

"Wish…” He swallows hard. “Wish I didn't fucking feel."

Jaskier's heart hurts. "It'd be easy, wouldn't it?" he murmurs. Geralt nods. "Wouldn't be any fun, though. Would it?"

When Geralt hesitates, Jaskier shuffles down the bed. He takes Geralt's face in his hands, looking into wide and nervous golden eyes, and presses a kiss to his forehead. 

"There are better things to feel," he says, quiet but firm. "This? That horrid ache in your chest? It'll pass, like it always does. You're gonna get some rest, and we'll sleep in as long as we like, and then we'll find ourselves a nice breakfast and get back on the road. Just you, me and Roach. I'll give you better things to feel, dearest, I promise."

A tiny little smile quirks at the corners of Geralt's mouth. Some of the fear drains from his eyes. Jaskier thinks it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. 

"That sounds good," Geralt whispers, and Jaskier smiles along with him. He gets one last kiss to the very tip of his nose before Jaskier wraps him up in his arms once more, his head tucked beneath Jaskier’s chin, legs tangled together. His heart beats a slow, steady rhythm where his chest is pressed to Jaskier’s, and when he breathes a shuddering sigh Jaskier feels the warmth against his collarbone. 

After a long moment, during which Jaskier starts to nod off, he feels Geralt shift. 

“Jaskier?” he whispers. 

Jaskier opens his eyes to find Geralt looking up at him. “Mhm?”

“You’re not a whore.”

There’s a pause, until Jaskier recalls the shouts of the group downstairs. Then he bursts out laughing, and hugs Geralt tight to his chest again, nuzzling into his hair.

“I’m a bit of a whore, dear,” he says, still smiling. 

Geralt huffs a laugh. “M’tryna be nice,” he grumbles. 

“I know,” Jaskier sighs. “You’re sweet, Geralt. I won’t tell anyone.”

In his arms, Geralt goes still.

“I love you,” he says quietly.

Jaskier’s heart swells with happiness. “Oh, you brave man,” he whispers. “I know. I know, and I love you so much, Geralt, _so_ much.” He kisses the top of his head. “You sleep now. I’ve got you. Promise.”

Geralt makes a quiet noise, almost a whimper, and holds him all the closer. 

It’s almost overwhelming, the strength of the trust Geralt has found for him; trust enough to rest with him, to hide from the world in his embrace. And it gives Jaskier a rush of intense satisfaction, of pride. The world can do what it likes, he thinks. Just as long as he has Geralt, and Geralt has him.

* * *

"Jaskier?" Geralt rumbles one day, his fingers trailing idly up and down Jaskier's arm. 

Humming an affirmative, Jaskier shuffles around in Geralt's embrace until he can bury his face in the crook of his neck. Obligingly, Geralt's arms tighten around him, despite the warm rocks at his back and the heat of the sun on their bare skin. A stream babbles quietly beside them, the only sound for miles and miles besides the chirping birds. Jaskier takes a deep breath; lavender soap and the lingering scent of leather mingle on Geralt's skin, familiar and comforting. He thinks he'll have to write a ballad. 

Geralt nuzzles at his hair, still damp from their swim. "Why do you love me?" he murmurs. 

Jaskier pauses. He sits up, tilting his head in question as he studies Geralt's face. It's the sort of question he normally hears whispered into his chest after a hard night, snarled at him from across their camp as Geralt tries to hide his ichor-black eyes. Normally, it means the witcher is in desperate need of a good dose of reassurance and plenty of hugs. But Geralt doesn't look upset, or afraid. He's simply curious, albeit a little shy. Jaskier's heart flips over in his chest. 

"Oh, Geralt, dear," he smiles, pressing himself closer, taking Geralt's face between his hands and pulling him down to plant a kiss on his forehead. "I'm quite afraid I could never answer that question in full, for it would take every second of the rest of my life."

Geralt huffs a laugh. "You're ridiculous," he says softly. 

"Mhm," says Jaskier, kissing his nose. "All the more reason to start early, I suppose. Right…" He brushes his thumbs over the soft skin under Geralt's eyes, feeling the corners crinkle as he smiles. "Right here." 

"Mmm?"

"Yeah." Jaskier watches Geralt's pupils widen slowly with contentment. "Gods above, I love your eyes, Geralt. You're a quiet soul, but you say so much with your eyes. I think they must surely be the most beautiful colour in the world."

Geralt snorts, skeptical. 

"Hey, now, I mean it." Stroking the faint laugh lines until Geralt lets his eyes slip shut, Jaskier presses a featherlight kiss to each of his eyelids. "I mean it, dear."

Geralt hums as relaxation washes over him once more. "And?" he murmurs. 

"And I love your lips." Jaskier draws a thumb along his bottom lip, slightly red from their earlier bouts of kissing. "Your nose, your cheeks." He tilts Geralt's head up with a finger under his chin and kisses along his jaw, light at first. When he reaches his pulse point he takes a moment to suck at the sensitive spot, drawing a rumble of contentment from deep in Geralt's chest. "You're stunning, Geralt," he breathes, as he continues kissing down the column of his throat. "All of you. Fucking beautiful."

The breath leaves Geralt's lungs in a shaky exhale. "Jaskier..." he sighs. 

Jaskier finds ragged scars under his lips—the marks of a striga's claws, left by a blow that very nearly took the witcher's life. His heart twinges, and he draws back to trace them with his fingertips. "I love your scars," he says. When Geralt raises an eyebrow, he adds, "I know you don't. That's alright. You don't always have the best taste, dear–" Geralt huffs– "but I, for one… I love that they mean you're alive. With me. They remind me of how lucky I am."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Geralt hums, distant. A little smile twitches at the corner of his lips. Jaskier presses a kiss there, then shuffles down to lay his head on Geralt's chest. His hand rests over his heart, fingers idly stroking at the fine white hair there. 

"I was very taken with those scars, when we first met," he says. "The eyes, the muscles–" he taps a finger against Geralt's chest, and Geralt chuckles– "all lovely, of course. But the very first time I realized I loved you was in that little village near Oxenfurt. Do you remember? We were heading back to the inn after that drowner contract. You were soaking wet, covered in monster ichor and blood. You were leaning on my shoulder 'cause the bastards took a chunk out of your calf. Carrying a severed head. Half the village was standing in their doorways, whispering amongst themselves, but no one would come near. And then that little girl ran up, wouldn't stop when her mother yelled for her to stay, ran right up to you and asked if all the monsters were gone. You let go of me and knelt, set the drowner's head behind your back, promised they were gone… and she leapt at you, threw her arms round your neck and thanked you. Tried to offer you her favourite doll as payment, the sweet little thing. But you smiled and told her that witchers don't take payment from such polite kids. Made her day, you did."

Jaskier smiles. "I knew right then I was gonna follow you to the ends of the earth. All the shit you're put through, and you're still the kindest person I've ever met. Strong and clever and so damn kind."

Under his ear, Geralt draws a halting breath. "Fuck," he says, voice trembling. "Fuck, I love you, Jaskier."

"I know, darling." Jaskier tilts his head up to kiss the underside of Geralt's jaw, turns in his lap and wraps his arms around his neck. He offers a cheeky smile. "Tell me why?"

Geralt huffs a quiet laugh. "Dunno if I could fit it into a lifetime either," he says quietly. 

"You old sap," Jaskier teases. "We've got all the time in the world to start."

He hums an agreement. His gaze turns distant, and his content expression suddenly falters. 

"I'm not good with words," he whispers, like it's some sort of admission. 

Jaskier's chest aches. "I know, dear," he murmurs. "I don't expect you to be." He steals a little kiss, soothing him with the touch. "You could show me? You're always showing me."

A tentative smile spreads across Geralt's face. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do that."

Dimly, Jaskier is aware that they must both look like lovestruck fools, grinning at each other from an inch away. He can't find it in him to care one bit. 

"Love you," he murmurs again, just because. In silent answer, Geralt presses their foreheads together. 

He will definitely have to write a ballad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Find me on Tumblr!](https://nbgeralt.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr!](https://nbgeralt.tumblr.com)


End file.
